Page 41 of Circle of Death
The corridor flies by in a blur. For a second, I think about shape-shifting into a cheetah or a greyhound. But that would take some concentration. And right now I can’t concentrate at all. All I can do is run—as fast as my human legs can carry me.
I head for an exit.ALARM WILL SOUND, it says. I push through it. A piercing siren blasts. I’m outside on the north side of the building, river at my back. In the parking area, smoke is billowing from behind an emergency vehicle, lights flashing. UN firefighters are jumping off the truck with hoses and extinguisher canisters.
My lungs are heaving as I sprint across the grounds. Two security guys try to intercept me. I shove through them like they’re not even there. On the other side of the truck, I stop cold.
Moe’s limo is wrapped in flames. The whole frame of the car is bent, and the hood is up and partly detached. The roof is practically blown off.
One of the firefighters has a heavy tool wedged between the driver’s-side door and the frame. He throws his full weight into it. The door flies open, releasing another plume of black smoke. The firefighter reaches in and slices the shoulder strap and belt with a sharp blade.
I get to the car just as Moe topples out, his face bloody and blackened. His suit and shirt are in shreds and I can see deep, oozing wounds in his chest and belly.
The firefighter grabs his ankles. I grab his wrists. We drag him a few yards away and lay him on the pavement. Smoke is billowing around us and we’re soaked with water and foam.
“Moe!”
I lean down over his shattered skull, and see his pinkish brain leaking out. I scream his name again and again, louder and louder.
As if I had the power to wake the dead.
CHAPTER 50
LAMONT’S MANSION IS lit by hundreds of flickering candles. Tall torches illuminate the garden. Giddy guests in formal wear circulate through the first-floor rooms and pause to chat on the rear balconies. Waiters move from room to room carrying trays of elegant canapes. A man in a porkpie hat sits at the piano, pounding out a bouncy accompaniment to the festivities.
The conversations are all about one thing. Prohibition. Or, actually, the end of it. What better cause for a celebration? Copies of that morning’sNew York Timesare stacked in the foyer. December 5, 1933. “City Toasts New Era,” the front page says.
The party has two full bars, one in the parlor and one in the library, staffed with red-vested bartenders. Legal booze is in short supply, but Lamont apparently still has plenty of bootleggers on call. And tonight, they definitely delivered.
As the guests swirl and mingle, Lamont stands quietly near the fireplace, sipping his Scotch. In a sea of formal black and white, his midnight-blue tux stands out like a beacon. Even with all the Broadway actors at the party, he’s by far the best-looking man in the room.
His girlfriend Margo is gorgeous, too. She moves from group to group in a high-waisted satin gown, her bright red lipstick setting off her brilliant white smile. At one point, she kicks off her high heels and shows off a few sinuous samba moves in her bare feet. A cluster of guests applauds. In mid-step, Margo looks up and spots Lamont leaning against the mantel.
She picks up a flute of champagne from a tray and walks toward him. They lock eyes through the crowd, and some kind of visual warp opens between them, turning the rest of the room into a buzzing blur. She slides her arm through his and brings her lips to his ear. Lamont grins, then turns and kisses her gently on the neck. Then he does it again. As if they were the only two people in the room.
“That’s enough,” says Dache.
Maddy blinks. Back to present reality. She’s blushing.
“Wow,” she says. “Itworked! I was really there!”
“You did well,” says Dache. “Now rest.”
“Lamont and Margo,” says Maddy. “Isawthem! In this house!”
“Of course,” says Dache. “You were a guest at their party.”
Maddy leans back on the bench, her heart still pounding. Dache had told her the risks of inhabiting the past, but she had insisted. And it was totally worth it. Now she’s back with her mind intact. “It’sembarrassinghow in love they were,” she says.
“Are,”corrects Dache. “Not everything fades with time, Madeline. Some things get even better. Even if you can’t always see it.”
Maddy grabs Dache by the arm. “I want to go back! I want to see more.”
“Not today,” says Dache gently. “Pace yourself. I warned you—chuanghu can be dangerous, even for the best students. The past has a way of…” He stops in mid-sentence.
Maddy looks up. Lamont, Margo, and Jericho are standing at the top of the garden path. Margo is in the middle, clinging tight to the men. Her lips are ashen. Lamont’s pants and shirt are streaked with blood.
Maddy stares at Lamont. She gets a sudden stab in her gut.
In that split second, she knows.
